He Broke My Hands, I Broke His Empire

He Broke My Hands, I Broke His Empire

Gavin

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Caleb, my brilliant partner and fiancé, stroked my hand. "One more month, Gabby," he whispered, "and you'll officially be the COO of Aura. My queen." We were celebrating our empire, the tech company I architected from our dorm room. I thought we were building a kingdom together. That was the last clear thing I remembered before waking up to shattering pain. My hands, once capable of flying across a keyboard, were broken, mangled. Rough voices laughed from beyond a thin wall: "Caleb paid good money... said to make sure her hands were unusable." My world imploded. It was Caleb. All of it. He "rescued" me, a perfect performance for the world. But in the ambulance, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. "You should have just been happy with what you had. Now, you have nothing." My hospital room became a gilded cage. I listened as he plotted with his intern, Molly, to take my COO position, mocking my nerve damage, certain I was finished. He even sabotaged my surgery, ensuring permanent injury. The humiliation peaked when he wheeled me onto a stage, only for me to "accidentally" fall, exposed and vulnerable, to the world. The "Shark of Silicon Valley" became "Poor Gabby Johns," a tragic spectacle. Every condescending word, every false show of concern, was a fresh wound. He thought he'd broken me, reduced me to a pitiful charity case. He had no idea. While he celebrated his victory, believing I was defeated, a hidden message whispered into an encrypted tablet ignited a plan. I pretended to surrender, buying myself time. He just made his biggest mistake: underestimating the woman he tried to bury. I was re-arming, and the real war was about to begin.

Introduction

Caleb, my brilliant partner and fiancé, stroked my hand.

"One more month, Gabby," he whispered, "and you'll officially be the COO of Aura. My queen."

We were celebrating our empire, the tech company I architected from our dorm room.

I thought we were building a kingdom together.

That was the last clear thing I remembered before waking up to shattering pain.

My hands, once capable of flying across a keyboard, were broken, mangled.

Rough voices laughed from beyond a thin wall: "Caleb paid good money... said to make sure her hands were unusable."

My world imploded.

It was Caleb.

All of it.

He "rescued" me, a perfect performance for the world.

But in the ambulance, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

"You should have just been happy with what you had. Now, you have nothing."

My hospital room became a gilded cage.

I listened as he plotted with his intern, Molly, to take my COO position, mocking my nerve damage, certain I was finished.

He even sabotaged my surgery, ensuring permanent injury.

The humiliation peaked when he wheeled me onto a stage, only for me to "accidentally" fall, exposed and vulnerable, to the world.

The "Shark of Silicon Valley" became "Poor Gabby Johns," a tragic spectacle.

Every condescending word, every false show of concern, was a fresh wound.

He thought he'd broken me, reduced me to a pitiful charity case.

He had no idea.

While he celebrated his victory, believing I was defeated, a hidden message whispered into an encrypted tablet ignited a plan.

I pretended to surrender, buying myself time.

He just made his biggest mistake: underestimating the woman he tried to bury.

I was re-arming, and the real war was about to begin.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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